


ch-ch-changes!

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Bickering, Body Swap, Cracky Sci Fi Fun, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pseudoscience, Riding, a whole new meaning to the phrase 'go fuck yourself', newmannpornfest2k18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 15:00:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16139681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: The circumstances are these: Newt maybe fucked around with drift tech he found in (stole from) the trash that he shouldn’t have been fucking around with, and maybe things went a little haywire and Hermann, poor Hermann, who only wanted to check up on Newt when Newt didn’t meet him for dinner like they’d planned, got caught in the crossfire when things went from haywire to red alert crisis, and atoms or brainwaves or souls or something got scrambled and now Newt’s Hermann and Hermann’s Newt and they are, without a doubt, the only human beings alive this has ever happened to.How fucking cool.(or: newt and hermann get a little freaky friday and then have some fun with it)





	ch-ch-changes!

**Author's Note:**

> what's a better occasion than a pornfest to write body swap? i love sci fi hijinks!
> 
> i'd also like to formally dedicate the line "tattooed twink gets pounded by lab partner" to lindsey

“You know,” Newt says, “ultimately, this will be a great bonding experience for us.”

“Newton,” Hermann says.

“As colleagues,” Newt continues, “and friends. It’s all about putting a positive spin on it.”

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann says, and Newt closes his mouth. Well. Not his mouth. Hermann’s mouth. Which is temporarily Newt’s.

Hermann’s sitting in Newt’s chair and shaking his leg up and down, tapping his fingers on the armrests, chewing on his lip. Newt’s leg. Newt’s fingers. Newt’s lip. Newt’s nervous tics, which is interesting, really, that they’re a physiological phenomenon and not psychological. Did Hermann get Newt’s ADHD, too? His aversion to broccoli? His inability to sleep without his leg flung out across a pillow? How does this work, anyway? Newt wants to write several long and very, very detailed reports on this. Maybe a book. If people would believe it, which he can’t see why _not_ , considering the world has gone distinctively sci-fi lately. What’s one more trope for the pile?

“Newton,” Hermann repeats, in Newt’s high, squeaky voice. Is Newt’s voice really that high and squeaky? Yikes. Hermann looks down at his—Newt’s—hand—his shaking, vibrating hand—in mild shock, and then offense, almost as if it’s not of his own accord, that his body—Newt’s body—is betraying him. He stills his fingers, flexes them, stares at them. “We need to fix this,” he declares, eyes fixed on Newt’s chipped black nail polish, the little skull pinky ring Newt won from a boardwalk arcade when he was twenty. “Very, very soon.” He curls and uncurls his fingers.

“We do,” Newt agrees. “But.”

“But?” Hermann fixes that stare on him, a typical Hermann sternness suddenly radiating from behind Newt’s chunky glasses, and it’s almost as disconcerting as Newt hearing himself talk in a posh English accent.

“Consider the circumstances,” Newt says, and Hermann frowns pensively.

The circumstances are these: Newt maybe fucked around with drift tech he found in (stole from) the trash that he shouldn’t have been fucking around with, and maybe things went a little haywire and Hermann, poor Hermann, who only wanted to check up on Newt when Newt didn’t meet him for dinner like they’d planned, got caught in the crossfire when things went from haywire to red alert crisis, and atoms or brainwaves or souls or _something_ got scrambled and now Newt’s Hermann and Hermann’s Newt and they are, without a doubt, the only human beings alive this has ever happened to.

How fucking _cool_.

“We’re scientists,” Newt says, once he’s relayed that last point to Hermann. “We have a _duty_ to study this shit. Is it long term? Temporary? Did we _drift_? What are the caveats, Hermann, the side effects?” He’s getting excited, talking too fast, and Hermann looks a little green in the face; Newt imagines it must be as odd for Hermann to hear a distinctively Newt cadence twist his voice and emit from his own body as it is for Newt. “Will I take my coffee black now? Do you have that one Queen song stuck in your head now, too?”

Newt stand ups—to pace, maybe, grab a notebook from his desk and start scrawling notes down frantically—but the second both feet hit the floor and his back straightens out a fierce, searing pain shoots through his left leg and he falls immediately back into Hermann’s chair. “Ow,” he says, dumbly.

Hermann’s been clutching onto his cane this whole time—reflex, Newt thinks—and he looks at it in his hands with some surprise. “Oh,” he says, and hands it over to Newt. “You’ll. Ah. Need this, I suppose.”

Newt takes it and steps once more to his feet gingerly. Newt has not stood full height yet—after The Swap, they both laid on the floor a bit before the reality of what happened sunk in and they mutually forced each other into chairs—and he finds it makes him feel a little nauseous. Everything is just _slightly_ off. Just two or so inches further beneath him. Hermann stands, too, and Newt watches him subconsciously shift his weight to his right leg, right hand going out in front of him to rest on a nonexistent cane, before he blinks in surprise, drops his hand, and straightens to his—Newt’s—full height as well.

“Dude,” Newt says, staring down at himself-slash-Hermann. “I’m _short_.”

Hermann manages to turn just a bit greener. “Dude,” he echoes, faintly, and then says “Medical. We need—”

“No,” Newt says sharply, and when Hermann’s eyebrows shoot up, Newt continues, “Hermann. Listen. If they find out I stole that shit—”

“Well, that’s hardly on _my_ head, is it?” Hermann snaps, and Newt pouts. Hermann sinks back to his chair. “No,” he says, and sighs. “I’m sorry. You’re right. Not medical. Not likely they’d believe us, anyway.” He drags his fingers through his—Newt’s hair. Also one of Newt’s nervous tics. Interesting. “So help me, Newton, you better fix this.”

“I’m eighty-percent sure I can,” Newt lies.

 

 

The closest Newt’s ever come to using a walking aid is when he broke his ankle on a Boy Scouts camping trip when he was ten and spent two months on crutches, so needless to say, he expects learning to use Hermann’s cane will be _hard_ , but after the initial shock he finds it comes as almost a second nature. Muscle memory, maybe, that he retained from Hermann. Even more interesting.

They walk together from the lab to the wing their bunks are located in once they agree to sleep on the matter at hand. Luckily, it’s late, so no one is around to try to make small talk and realize something is amiss; Newt and Hermann’s mutual existential crisis in the lab ensured they’d be there long past work hours. When they get to their quarters, just across the hall from each other, there’s a bit of a tense, awkward silence.

“Guess we should sleep in each other’s rooms?” Newt says, finally. “So it doesn’t look suspicious, I mean, if someone comes knocking.

Hermann looks pained at the thought. “I suppose,” he concedes with another little sigh. “Please don’t go making a mess and poking about everything. I would like to maintain what little privacy I can.”

“Sure, yeah,” Newt says, though, privately, he can’t imagine what Hermann could be hiding that’s possibly scandalous enough to warrant that amount of worry.

 

 

Here are two things Newt notices when he strips out of Hermann’s clothes to get ready for bed: one, Hermann’s pajamas are, somehow, about ten times less stylish than Hermann’s normal everyday slacks-and-vests, which is quite a feat, to be honest, and two, Hermann is _hung_.

 

 

Here are two things Hermann notices upon wriggling out of Newton’s skinny jeans and button-up to prepare for bed: one, Newton’s nipples are pierced, and two, what Hermann mistook for Newton’s pyjama drawer is, actually, an elaborate and—frankly—alarmingly large collection of oddly shaped and violently-hued dildos, each one more strange than the last. There are tentacles. There are reptilian ones with ridges. There’s a curved neon one that must be at least ten inches that starts vibrating distressingly when it thuds against the side of the drawer. Hermann shuts it off quickly, bright red in the face, and slams the drawer just as fast. Not pyjamas, then.

Newton’s bedroom is not nearly as messy as Hermann had been expecting, thankfully. There’s laundry in little heaps on the floor, of course, yellowed and creased paperbacks and action figures and other little odds and ends scattered across the bedside table and top of the dresser, but it’s an organized chaos that Hermann has no trouble navigating. He finds sweatpants kicked beneath the bed and pulls them on over Newton’s boxers—because he refuses to look _there_ just yet—and leaves Newton’s undershirt in place before he shuts off the lights and slips beneath Newton’s bedspread.

Newton has a lava lamp, a stagnant glass of water, and a half-empty pack of gum on the bedside table.

Newton has a guitar resting against the wall and a spare pair of boots resting next to that.

Newton, Hermann remembers, has nipple piercings.

Hermann’s eyes have adjusted enough to the dark that he can see the them protruding very, very faintly through the white cotton of Newton’s undershirt. They’re little silver rings. Hermann does not know why he is surprised: Newton treats his body like a walking canvas, what’s a little more modification? It’s the...well... _erotic_ factor of it, he supposes. His tattoos are for decoration, for obvious display. But nipple piercings?

He raises one of his fingers and prods at a ring. His nipple—Newt’s nipple, he supposes—stiffens immediately, nerves sparking to life and arousal tingling, and to Hermann’s sheer and utter mortification he feels Newton’s (his?) cock _stir_ in his sweatpants. He snatches his hand away.

It felt good. More than good, actually: Newton is extraordinarily sensitive. Hermann can see how Newton could get off from just playing with his nipples alone, maybe having those little rings worried between the teeth of a partner. Maybe—Hermann’s, or Newton’s, cock stirs a bit more—he tugs on them when he fucks himself with one of those intimidating dildos. Hermann’s half-reaching to brush the cool metal of one of those rings again when the reality of what he’s doing—of the ethical implication—sinks in and he freezes. This is _Newton’s_ body. Hermann may be temporarily inhabiting it, but that doesn’t give him the right to— _pleasure_ himself, to _fantasize_ about what Newton does when he’s alone. How _base_ of Hermann.

 

Hermann has lube in his bedside table, but no condoms, which leads Newt to the obvious conclusion that Hermann isn’t getting any action outside of his hand. Which is a bit of a fucking shame, to be honest, because Hermann’s dick is fucking huge. Full-on porno dick. Newt got a boner just staring at it. Which was weird, because the boner was also the porno dick in question. Sort of like a mildly narcissistic feedback loop.

Newt tried to do the honorable thing and ignore it, at first, will it away, but the longer he laid there in Hermann’s bed the harder (ha!) it got: Hermann’s bedsheets smelled like Hermann, and Hermann’s pajamas smelled like Hermann, and Hermann’s cock was so _big_ (the universe is smiling kindly upon Newt by giving the object of his secret affections a dick like that) and eventually he just—caved in, lubed up his hand and went to town so he could _finally_ get to sleep.

He tugs himself off in quick strokes, biting his lip so hard he breaks skin, and he closes his eyes and imagines what it’d be like to ride that dick. Newt could take it, absolutely. Or maybe just give Hermann a handjob. Or a blowjob. Newt moans at the thought, and the sound of it—the breathiness of it, of knowing exactly what Hermann would sound like as he jerks off—makes him moan even _louder_. Unable to help himself, he tears back the sheets and watches his, Hermann’s hand, Hermann’s long-fingered and elegant hand, flying over his cock, and hopes, vaguely, this isn't an invasion of privacy, and then he comes _pretty_ hard.

 

* * *

 

Hermann doesn’t meet his eyes when they rejoin in the hallway the next morning; Newt wonders if he heard him jerking off. That would be _pretty_ mortifying.

Hermann’s dressed himself in Newt’s least-ripped skinny jeans and a soft maroon sweater Newt isn’t aware he even owned. Figures that Hermann was able to hone in on the least Geiszlerian thing in Newt’s closet. “How’d you...sleep?” Newt says. Hermann jerks a little. Newt’s glasses slide down his nose. He does that weird little swallow thing he always does (he brought some of his own nervous tics along, apparently).  “Your mattress is fucking comfy, man,” Newt continues, determined to keep this conversation going.

Hermann does not want to keep it going, so they decide to tackle the issue of _breakfast_ before moving on to the more pressing one. They agree that they should both go to the mess hall, rather than try to send out Newt as Hermann—whose idea of a Hermann impression is to tell people to stay off his lawn—or Hermann as Newt—whose idea of a Newt impression is to pepper in “dude” to every other word. It all proves an entirely new challenge when Newt realizes that he’s inherited Hermann’s gluten intolerance, too, which Hermann has to forcefully remind him of when Newt tries to pile three muffins onto his plate.

“I can’t eat those,” Hermann says, and then clears his throat. “I mean— _you_ can’t eat those.”

“Oh,” Newt says, sadly, and then he points at the little bit of turkey bacon on Hermann’s plate. Hermann damn well knows Newt is vegetarian. “Well, _you_ can’t eat that.”

“My condition,” Hermann sniffs, “is not a choice. Yours—”

“Put it back or so help me God,” Newt says, and points at the muffin tray, “I will eat every single one of those, Hermann.”

Hermann scowls. He puts the turkey bacon back.

They’re getting weird looks from the guy behind them in line, so they fill up the rest of their trays quickly and hurry to find their usual table. Hermann picks at an apple with an air of mild melancholy (Newt really underestimated how much he wanted that turkey bacon) while Newt attempts, in vain, to pretend his gluten-free toast is edible, let alone good. “It tastes like buttery cardboard,” he declares, finally giving up.

Hermann has begun scrutinizing the outfit Newt’s dressed himself in. “I don’t wear that shirt with that sweater,” he says. “It clashes.”

“Dude,” Newt says, because the colors are literally the same boring, identical grey. Hermann winces. “ _Dude_ ,” Newt says again, just to be a pest, and Hermann throws his apple stem at him. It catches in his hair; Hermann immediately looks mortified. “There we go!” Newt crows, and flicks it out. “Now you’re getting into character.”

They don’t talk for the rest of breakfast—for the better, maybe—and when they make it back to the lab, Hermann makes a stumbling beeline for his chalkboard. He’s clumsy in Newt’s body, Newt’s noticed. He keeps reaching for his cane and keeps tripping over his own feet, the latter probably because he’s not used to being this compact. “Hey,” Newt says, watching Hermann set to work immediately. “Shouldn’t we—I don’t know. Trade jobs, for the time being?”

Hermann scowls at him. “If you think I’m touching your disgusting—”

“Okay, but,” Newt holds up a finger, “if someone stops in and sees you,” here Newt points at himself, “poking around in kaiju guts, and me,” here he points to Hermann, “fucking around with your equations, they’re gonna know something’s up.”

“Damn you,” Hermann says, and tosses down his chalk. “You have a point.”

Hermann makes sure Newt knows he’s miserable the entire time they work by making disgusted noises each time he comes into contact with even the slightest bit of Newt’s sample and cursing darkly under his breath. He’s also upped the safety precautions—he’s found an apron in the bowels of the supply closet and paired that with some absurdly long gloves, and he’d’ve worn the safety goggles he dug out from the supply closet, too, if Newt’s glasses weren’t in the way. He looks ridiculous and totally uncool. Newt hopes no one stops in, if not just because it would ruin his carefully crafted devil-may-care image.

Newt, meanwhile, gives up pretty quickly on Hermann’s equations and starts fiddling with the old drift equipment he dragged in from the trash instead to figure out what the hell happened that caused _this_. It all looks innocuous enough, it not ancient. Nothing to indicate why it would’ve suddenly turned itself on, malfunctioned, and _swapped their bodies_.

Newt works on it all day. Around dinnertime, Hermann tosses his gloves in the trash and hangs up his apron and starts hovering over Newt anxiously. “Have you—?” Hermann begins, and Newt shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and after—unsuccessfully—attempting to pick himself up, Hermann grabs onto his hands and does it for him. His leg aches like _hell_. “Shit,” Newt hisses, accepting Hermann’s offer of his cane gratefully when Hermann snags it from where it rests against the wall.

“Yes,” Hermann says, mouth twisted wryly. “That’s why I don’t typically go out of my way to kneel on the floor and play with garbage.” He pats Newt’s back. “A hot shower will help with that.”

“Hot shower, huh?” Newt says, massaging his hip. Hermann’s hand freezes. Newt rolls his eyes. “I’m in your body, man, I’m going to see you naked eventually.” Or, you know, again.

“I suppose,” Hermann says, but he’s still stiff.

“Let’s make it even,” Newt says. “I hereby give you permission to take a shower too. That way we’re both seeing each other naked.” He hums thoughtfully. “That doesn’t make this any less weird, does it?”

Hermann is bright red. “Please,” he says, “stop talking, Newton.”

“Fair,” Newt says.

 

* * *

 

Make it even, Newton said. Hermann should not feel _odd_ about this; Newton himself is across the hall, stripped down and showering as well.

Hermann did an admirable job of not looking at Newton’s body in the shower, which was a feat aided by the fact that Newton can hardly see an inch in front of himself without his glasses on. Afterwards, though—when Hermann shuts the water off, wraps a towel loosely around his waist, slips Newton’s glasses back on his damp nose—he catches sight of himself (of Newton) in the bathroom mirror and can’t help but pause and think that Newton is rather a lovely sight wet-haired and mostly nude (though the knowledge that Newton is attractive is nothing new to Hermann). His sides are soft, a little curvy, so unlike Hermann in his boniness and skinniness. His arms are quite strong and toned (undoubtedly from lifting so many samples about). His tattoos spiral all the way down past his pecs, past his abdomen, down to a trail of dark hair, to—Hermann lets the towel slide away—a nicely-sized cock. Hermann rests his hand on his stomach and pinches a bit of fat, and his eyes wander to the little silver nipple rings again. He remembers how sensitive they were last night. (Is all of Newton that sensitive?)

Idly, Hermann strokes down Newton’s chest. Just an innocent little brush of fingertips. Leftover steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror, and it makes Newton’s body look oddly ethereal. Hermann ghosts down Newton’s cock and sighs breathily.

Newton’s more than a lovely sight. Gorgeous, really. Hermann can imagine, all too well, what it would be like to lay Newton out beneath him and make love to him—the right places to touch, what he’d sound like (because it’s what Hermann sounds like, now). His cock has started to stir with interest, and Hermann’s just around to curl his fingers around it when he remembers himself.

“Ridiculous,” he says aloud, heat rising to his cheeks, and drops his hand. He needs to ready for bed, not grope his lab partner. Maybe visiting Newton will help him back into his right mind. They can put their heads together, think of a solution. Yes, Hermann thinks, shimmying into a pair of Newton’s ridiculous skinny jeans. He’ll talk to Newton.

 

 

Newt’s in a similar state across the hall. Sort of.

Newt _did_ actually plan on taking a shower, but then he decided to fuck around on Hermann’s laptop and accidentally ended up looking at his browser history (Hermann watches a lot of _very specific_ gay porn, and has a weird amount of Newt’s old research and journal articles bookmarked), and once he got bored of that he decided to take that shower, and then he’d gotten naked but then got distracted by the mirror and he started—well—

“I’m Hermann,” Newt says into the mirror. “Dr. Hermann Gottlieb. Please, call me Dr. Gottlieb. I make love to my PhD every night.” Newt winks at Hermann’s reflection. “Newt is so hot and sexy,” he says, and it’s a little pathetic that hearing Hermann’s voice say that makes his heart race. He flings a hand across his chest dramatically. “Oh, Newton, you’re the love of my life, let’s run away together and get married.”

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and Newt has to quickly steady himself on the counter when he loses his balance in surprise. “What in the blazes are you _doing_ in there?” Hermann says.

Newt quickly pulls Hermann’s briefs back up and cracks the door. “Uh,” he says, “hey, buddy.” Hermann’s red-faced and a bit flustered. (What has _he_ been doing?) “How’d you get in here?”

“You own a spare key,” Hermann says. He peers inside suspiciously. “Why am I naked?”

The truth—that Newt’s spent the last half-hour saying dumb shit aloud just to hear what Hermann would sound like saying it—is way too embarrassing, so instead he blurts out “I was jerking off.”

“You were—” Hermann splutters, and then, to Newt’s surprise, he reaches inside and smacks Newt’s arm.

“Hey!”

“I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself!” Hermann exclaims, and then he deflates a little. “Er. That is—keep my hands to myself. _I_ would never—”

Newt swings the door open all the way. “Oh, whatever, man,” Newt says, determined to stand his ground even though he was totally lying about jerking off. “It’s not my fault you get horny over fucking _everything_. Seriously. You need to let out some steam before you keel over and die from repressing your libido so hard. Find a nice guy and just—”

“I do _not_ repress my libido!”

“‘My name’s Hermann Gottlieb,” Newt says, making Hermann sound three times as stuffy, “and I’m horny all the time because I can’t get laid.’”

Hermann swells up, Newt’s lips drawn into the tightest line possible. “ _‘My_ name’s Newton Geiszler,’” he spits, ‘“and I have more sex toys than friends.’”

Guess Hermann found the dildo drawer. Whatever, like Hermann’s masturbation habits are any less embarrassing. “‘ _My_ name’s Hermann Gottlieb,’” Newt says, “‘and all my PornHub searches are for ‘tattooed twinks’—”

“Shut _up_ ,” Hermann says, and kisses him.

Newt’s wanted to kiss Hermann for ages, but none of his little fantasies played out like this. Newt has to bend _down_ to kiss him, and his lips aren’t nearly froglike enough, and, you know, it's also himself he's kissing. It’s doing it for him plenty, though. “Oh, weird,” Newt says, when Hermann breaks away and Newt—well, Newt in Hermann’s body—already has a boner. “This is fucking weird.” He points at his dick. “I’m gonna chalk this up to physiological stimulation to save face.” But Hermann’s grabbing him by the shoulders and dragging him back in for another kiss, furious and panting and biting at his lips. “ _Jesus_ , Hermann,” he squeaks, “I was lying about jerking off, okay? That time, anyway—”

Hermann backs him up against the counter, sliding his hands over Newt’s back, and that’s when Newt realizes what his eyes are fixed on—their reflection in the mirror, where Hermann just sees Newt’s lips on Hermann’s neck, Newt’s arms and hands exploring Hermann’s skin. It’s kind of romantic. “Hermann,” Newt says, “listen, let’s—okay, leg’s starting to hurt, dude, can we take this to bed?”

“I want to see _you_ ,” Hermann mumbles into his skin, but he pulls off and takes Newt by the hand.

Hermann’s lost all the urgency by the time they _do_ make it to the bed. He’s all gentle once he strips out of Newt’s pajamas and arranges Newt the way that’s—presumably—going to be most comfortable for him, and straddles Newt carefully.

It’s weird looking at himself like this. Newt reaches up and tucks a bit of his own hair behind his ear, and Hermann’s cheeks color and his eyes dart away. “Hey,” Newt says. “I’m kind of cute.” Hermann scoffs, so Newt trails his fingers lower. He brushes across his jaw, the way he likes, goes lower, and lower, until he’s circling over one of his nipples with Hermann’s thumb. “I’m sensitive here,” he murmurs with a little flick at one of the piercings, and Hermann shudders and a little whimper escapes his lips.

“I’m aware,” Hermann says, and he shuts his eyes when Newt pinches the nipple. “Bloody _hell_ , Newton.”

“You’re _aware_?” Newt says, grin spreading across his face. He wishes Hermann was looking at him; Hermann is so cute when he smiles. He should be able to experience that. “You totally jerked off. You’re such a liar.” He starts circling his thumb over the opposite nipple, too, occasionally flicking at both little hoops.

“I’m sorry,” Hermann says, after he whimpers again. “It's just—you’re _gorgeous_ , Newton.”

“Mm,” Newt hums happily, and he wraps his arms around Hermann tight. Newt’s body is a little squishy, but very warm, and maybe a bit too heavy. But Hermann thinks he’s gorgeous. Hermann _likes_ him, in all his squishiness. “Listen, hot stuff,” he says, and bites at his earlobe in a way he knows will drive Hermann crazy because it drives Newt crazy, “you’re not bad looking yourself.”

Hermann rolls his—Newt’s—hips forwards, perhaps unconsciously, and Newt feels how hard he’s getting, which just turns _Newt_ on. Hermann freezes, but only for a moment. “Oh, this is so strange,” he breathes, and wriggles his hand between their bodies to palm at the bulge in his little briefs. Newt moans; Hermann palms him a little faster. There’s a flush rising in his face, and his tongue is poking out between his teeth. (Newt gets worked up easily.)

“ _Hermann_ ,” Newt groans, rubbing against him. “Oh, shit—” Hermann leans in and kisses him, deep and thorough and _hot_ , and when he pulls away he’s got a dazed look in his eyes. Hermann sweeps his eyes across his own body—over his wide and well-kissed lips, his pecs, the way precome stains his cotton shorts—with a hungry look in his eyes.

“I feel a bit of a narcissist,” Hermann says, with a mad little giggle. He squeezes at Newt’s erection, that’s really Hermann’s erection, and Newt swallows down another desperate moan to shoot him another eye-crinkling smile instead.

“You should,” he says, breathy. “You deserve to! Like I said. You’re—” Hermann leans back down and mouths a hot little kiss at the juncture of his neck and shoulders, and Newt stammers out the next bit, “h-hot stuff.”

“ _I’m_ sensitive _there_ ,” Hermann explains, in a low tone that sounds very out of place coming from Newt. He nips at the skin, and Newt wraps elegant fingers around tattooed arms as Hermann starts sucking a little hickey into the same spot. It’s a _really_ fucking hot thought: Hermann marking him up, him technically being Hermann, who’s technically being marked by Newt, so they each get the fun of being both giver and givee of a hickey. Right? Maybe not right. Newt’s head is spinning, he’s so turned on.

“Hermann,” he says, “can I fuck you?”

Hermann freezes. He sits up. Newt’s glasses are askew, half-dangling off his face. “What?”

“I _really_ want to ride your dick,” Newt says. “I mean. I want you, as me, to ride your dick, which is now...my dick?” He frowns. “I want to top you, spiritually.”

“You’re speaking nonsense,” Hermann says, so Newt reaches around and grabs his ass. Pretty much _all_ of Newt is sensitive, from his nipples to his cock to his ass. Hermann makes a noise Newt is very familiar with. “ _Oh_.”

“C’mon, Hermann,” Newt says, squeezing his ass, and it’s maybe a little weird to think this about himself but man, Newt’s got a nice ass. Hermann’s clearly enjoying himself with it. “Wouldn’t that be kind of hot?” He spreads his own cheeks a bit; Hermann moans helplessly and slumps against him. (Hermann is being just as noisy as Newt usually is.) “Riding your own big, sexy dick?”

“You—oh,” Hermann gasps. “You just want to fuck yourself.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Newt admits with a grin. “But mostly because it’s you. Aren’t you kinda curious about what it would feel like?”

“No,” Hermann says, and then Newt rubs their cocks together and Hermann goes a bit more boneless against him. “Perhaps a little.”

“The way I see it,” Newt says, kneading away happily, “we have a once in a lifetime opportunity presented before us here, and it _definitely_ counts as research.” He reaches out to the side table to get Hermann’s little lube bottle out and spreads some of it on Hermann’s long, elegant fingers. “I’m _really_ tight at first,” he tells Hermann, as Hermann pants above him, “but it feels great.” He nudges Hermann’s—that is, his own—legs just a bit wider open and rubs delicately at his hole. Hermann moans helplessly.

“ _Oh_ ,” Hermann says, as Newt pushes a finger in. “Oh my. You are rather tight, aren’t you?” Newt licks a line up his throat; the stubble feels weird, and kinda hot. “Research. Yes. An excellent point, Newton. Our condition requires—” Newt slips in another finger, and then curls them in a way he knows will drive Hermann wild. The noise Hermann makes doesn’t disappoint. “Oh!”

“An intimate exploration,” Newt says, fucking Hermann with his fingers. Fuck, he really _is_ tight. “Very, very intimate.”

“A bit more,” Hermann pants, “if you would, please.”

Newt adds a third, twisting and fucking hard enough that his wrist starts to twinge, and Hermann whines and squirms atop him. “Newton,” Hermann moans, as Newt’s (Hermann’s) cock _aches,_ “oh, yes, like that, oh, that’s—”

Newt thinks, wildly, that if anyone walks by and hears them now they’re going to think Newt’s got some _weird_ complex, but Newt really doesn’t give a shit. He pulls his fingers from Hermann and grinds his cock up instead, hard and straining in the briefs. “Can I—” he says, and Hermann nods frantically.

It’s very fluid, on their credit: Newt tugs down the briefs enough to pull Hermann’s _impressive_ cock out, Hermann sits up, and with a hand braced on Newt’s chest he slides down onto it. His mouth drops open, and he hisses something out—a swear, or Newt’s name, Newt’s not sure. Newt, meanwhile, has to screw his eyes shut to keep from blowing his load right then and there. When he opens them and blinks hazily at Hermann, it’s to see his tattooed chest heaving, his head tossed back, neck flushed red, and Newt is unable to stop himself from reaching out and circling his thumb over one of his nipples once more.

Hermann swallows heavily and looks down. “Newton,” he says, Newt’s voice strangely throaty, “may I—?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Newt says.

Hermann rocks down on his own dick, hand still braced on his own chest, and Newt needs _something_ so he grabs hold of his hips. Newt’s hips. Newt’s soft, warm hips. No wonder dudes like squeezing Newt so much when they fuck—Newt’s like a fucking stress ball. Hermann adjusts quickly (like Newt always does), and then he starts _really_ going for it.

“It’s as if,” Hermann gasps, riding Newt hard enough the bed creaks worryingly and Newt has to bite his (Hermann’s) lip to keep from shouting, “you were built for this, Newton. You’re very _strong_. Your, ah, your thighs—oh—” He gives Newt another long, lusty once-over. “I look rather nice like this, don’t I?”

“Uh-huh,” Newt moans, and digs Hermann’s sexy fingers into the aforementioned thighs. “You’re talking a _lot_.” 

Hermann leans over and mouths hotly at his neck, sweat slicking between their bodies. “So it is a biological predisposition,” Hermann hums, “as opposed to you being merely annoying.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Newt says, and Hermann laughs that mad little giggle again and it makes _Newt_ break out in giggles, too. Once they’ve calmed down and Hermann sits back up, Newt grinds into him, grinning. “Tattooed twinks, huh?” Hermann swats at his arm. Newt is undeterred. “What’d you search again? ‘Tattooed twink gets _pounded_ by lab partner’.”

“I did not. Hush,,” Hermann says, and Newt decides to reach up and tug _hard_ at his hair. Hermann’s whole body seizes, and he clenches so tight Newt sees stars. “ _Oh_ —!”

“I love getting my hair pulled,” Newt sighs, and does it again.

“Newton,” Hermann babbles, and Newt keeps grinding up, “ _Newton_ —”

“Fuck,” Newt groans, thrusting up a bit, “shit, Hermann, I think I’m gonna—”

Hermann squeezes around him, and it’s the exact push Newt needs to teeter over the edge. “Oh, _Hermann_ —!” He watches Hermann’s face twist and contort in pleasure as he comes; it’s kind of hot to know what he looks like when he’s getting fucked, to be honest. Hermann’s still hard, so Newt—breathless and panting—reaches up and takes his cock in hand. “Here,” Newt says, “here, like this, I love it like this, kinda, uh, kinda dry—” he twists his wrist, swiping his thumb across the head of his cock and gathering precome, and Hermann bucks into his hand and comes on Newt with a whimper.

Newt wonders if he can convince Hermann to go for a round two eventually, since he kind of wants to know what it’d be like to get fucked by his own dick too. Hermann’s curled up against him now though, all sleepy and clingy, so it can wait. “Hey,” Newt says, and prods Hermann’s shoulder. “I must’ve been pretty good if you’re that tired.”

“Mm.” Hermann rolls over and stretches. “Maybe. It was _my_ body doing the work, was it not?”

“Yeah, but I’m at the controls, aren’t I?” Newt says.

“Muscle memory,” Hermann says, and yawns. “I’ll prove it to you once we’ve fixed this.”

“Once we’ve fixed this,” Newt echoes, and wraps his arms around Hermann-slash-Newt. He’s not just soft. He’s really warm, too. Newt might even hazard to say he’s _cozy_. “Cool. Okay. yes.”

 

* * *

 

When Newt wakes up the next morning, he finds himself snuggled up to Hermann and in, unquestionably, his own body again. (Also, sore as _fuck_. Newt really did a number on—himself.)

Hermann’s still sleeping, so Newt distracts himself by watching the rise and fall of Hermann’s chest and counting the hickeys Hermann left there the night before. At least three. Hermann finally cracks an eyelid after another twenty minutes or so, and startles when he sees Newt. “Surprise,” Newt says, nearly getting dislodged from underneath Hermann’s arm when Hermann tries to sit up. “We’re back! Guess it was temporary after all.”

“Small mercies,” Hermann says. He brushes his a fingertip over one of his hickies and winces. “Perhaps I was a tad overenthusiastic.”

“Same boat, dude,” Newt says. “I’m gonna be limping all week.” Newt’s a little bummed he didn’t get fucked by himself (well, spiritually bottom for Hermann), but now that they’ve—evidently—swapped back, just like that, there’s a whole new realm of possibilities for normal, but just as exciting, non-body-swappy sex with each other. They are now, of course, intimately aware with what makes each other _tick_. Newt knows they should type up reports about this, maybe investigate how this even happened in the first place, but he and Hermann are both still very much nude and very much in bed together. “Hermann,” Newt says in a little singsong voice. He creeps his hand over Hermann’s chest. “ _Her_ mann. Don’t you have a point to prove?”

“I do indeed,” Hermann says, eyes gone half-lidded already. He slides his hand down to cup Newt’s ass, and Newt shivers pleasantly. “I'd prefer to be hands-on with it, you see.”

“How thorough,” Newt says.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at the usual spots: hermannsthumb for tumblr, hermanngaylieb for twitter!
> 
> also--i'm co-hosting a newmann anthology zine! if you'd like to submit art or fic to it, applications are due by october 15. read all about it [here](https://newmannanthology.tumblr.com/about) (application link also there)!


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